#its complicated and yet so simple

[haveihitanerve]

Steph and Bruce things-

Bruce once said- “when I die I want you to be the one who lowers me into the grave so you can let me down one last time” and dick gaped at him in horror, jason exploded into laughter, and steph glared at him before giving him a high five

Steph ends every argument with him with “i won this argument” even if she- especially if she very clearly did not

When she gets injured Bruce forces her to stay at the manor. Its the only time he is permitted to actually parent her because she is injured and needs to recover, but thats not to say she doesn't break into the cave and annoy him during work and force him to take her with him everywhere

Steph has all the codes and keys for everything in Wayne Manor/Batcave, but still breaks in everytime she comes over. It drives Bruce insane

When bruce gets injured shes one of the kids who sits at his side the whole time, especially if its because of her or its a big injury(dick is usually the other one)

When he gets sick she forces him to sit on the couch with her all day and folds him into a burrito blanket and eat junk food and slightly burnt soup with bread and watch trashy tv

When she gets sick bruce wraps her in a blanket burrito that she actually cannot escape from and takes her everywhere with him, just carting around his technically not daughter who is forced to be there and take the medicine he gives her and food and everything because shes wrapped in a straight jacket blanket

He picks her up from school and will have the most embarrassing songs ever playing, or will call out something awful like “is that the boy you have a shrine of in your room?”

Will lecture her in front of her friends

Steph changes all his contacts frequently so he always has to spend some time deciphering who it is based on what she called them, or he just starts every conversation with “who is this?”

She once forced him to come to a concert with her and buy matching t-shirts and merch and whenever shes feeling down he wears the shirt as like.. Solidarity and it makes her feel better

Every year for her birthday or christmas or something he sends her a bat symbol, either in purple or black or some other color and every year on his birthday she actually wears it for one day and lets him “claim” her as a bat

She was the first one to visit the League and gave everyone whiplash and made Batman actually break composure

Bruce will actively go on the patrol route she goes on and throw water or like snacks at her while screaming “Hydrate or diedrate!!!” and it is common to see a screaming Spoiler sprint away from Batman across rooftops

They have a snowball fight every year and she recruits every batkid to help

When shes on her period bruce “grounds her” from patrol and forces her to accept his mother henning just once a month. Steph doesn't actually mind. 

Steph gives him actually useful dating advice

Since shes not actually his daughter she lacks the baggage of being his child and tells him when hes messed up and he and Babs have like meetings with him to explain what hes done wrong with his kids and how to fix it/be better. Dick is also sometimes involved in these meetings when he is not the offended party

thats all i could think of rn but please feel free to add more 💗

[redrobin-detective]

Something I wonder about Simon and Betty's relationship is how long they were together before the whole crown ordeal. But they were engaged, you say. My aunt (in)famously met my uncle and had a ring on her finger in 8 weeks. We've seen that both Betty and Simon were both weird outcasts, crazy determined and a pinch insane. I would not be surprised if they decided they'd met their one true love and got engaged super quick.

My point being, Betty's shifting to revolve around Simon and Simon's rose colored glasses of their relationship feels very much like New Love. They're people who love each other and love being a couple but still haven't quite figured out how to coexist together, as two people in a partnership. I feel like if they'd known each other longer, lived together longer, some of the issues we're seeing would have probably self resolved.

I don't think their relationship is toxic nor is it totally perfect. It's two lonely, most likely neurodivergent people in a relatively early relationship still figuring out how it works. Everything that happened afterwards: the crown, the seperation, the time travel, the magic/madness/sadness just exemplified issues they had both as individuals and as a couple.

[pleafyistired]

rolls around. im gonna get put down for thinking ancap n commie thoughts again.

[maxdanposts]

ponders for a lil while. turns to caesium. blasts him with aromantic beam

[snow-and-saltea]

finished yangtze river dolphin episode from extraordinary attorney woo and i think im near tears. i love this episode so much. a huge chunk of my media experience keeps telling me to be on edge, telling me that things are going to get dirty and dramatic and people are going to get antagonised for the sake of a good show, but it never goes there. the witness (? is that what you call them for civil cases?) temporarily snapping in court because everyone from the company is tired about the lawsuit, but after the court hearing ends, the plaintiffs end up hugging her and reassuring her that "it's okay, people have their own opinions, you're not a bad person, this is just how circumstances are and i wouldn't fault you for not picking the ‘moral high road’ for the sake of your own stability and comfort. i would've made the same decision in your shoes. these things shouldn't be blamed on you, but the way our patriarchal society has been set up even before we were born that forces us to choose between these two things. we will never fault you for not making the impossible perfect choice. no matter what happens in the end, we will never fault you for it."

and i'm just like. crying man. it's easy in shows involving law to easily spin a tale to villainise characters the main characters are disagreeing with, but like... this show goes beyond that and reveals something very simple and true, which is that humans are flawed, which means they can make flawed decisions, but that is not always a failure of morality or conscience.

and my god the critique of the mir life company was so good too. even when i thought i'd hate the hr guy, it turns out he's also just another cog in the machine they'd throw out. he's also been fed the same lies and sweet promises the others were, and i couldn't feel that familiar sense of "vindication!!!" i felt when villains got what they deserved. because it reminded me, once again, that he's not a villain; he's just another guy crushed under the weight of his imperfect decisions, becoming the scapegoat for all the targeted animosity when in reality he was discarded just as easily. it felt like his appearance was deliberately put so we'd have someone's face to hate, to throw the eggs on, but in reality the shitty choices are always made from people higher up than him, invisible and faceless but very much present in influencing the quality of thousands of people's livelihoods.

god. what a good show. between young-woo and su-yeon's friendship, i'm also loving the women solidarity in this episode. i love it so much. AND DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON RYU JAE-SOOK AND HER PHILOSOPHY ABOUT BEING AN ATTORNEY AND HER POEM SHE READ ON THE ROOFTOP. I'LL BURST INTO TEARS IF I REMEMBER IT

[malkaviian]

its honestly so funny that my homophobic grandmother says that i should "make use of my talent" when it comes to art and that "if i had that spark glow, it was for something" girl............ i started to draw because i wanted to make gijinkas of the male fn4f animatronics kiss each other

[bluemoonscape]

Shauna was somewhere between loving Jackie and hating Jackie and wanting to be her and wanting Jackie to be PART of her, but Jackie just wanted Shauna, period

do you ever think about how much jackie loved shauna and just burst into tears

LOOK AT THOSE HEART EYES JESUS CRHISY SHE MAKES ME SICK

[arolesbianism]

You know if anyone ever thinks that I maybe go a lil overboard with my Olivia characterisation sometimes just know that it could be so much worse. You could be reading abt my alternate timeline Olivia thoughts

[reasonsforhope]

"For [Tanner] Green, the chief engineer at Not a Wheelchair, this is one of the thousand complications standing between his team and a rather lofty goal: upending the manual wheelchair marketplace.

If you’ve heard of Not a Wheelchair, it’s likely because of its owners, Zack Nelson, the star of the 8.8-million-subscriber YouTube channel JerryRigEverything, and his wife Cambry, a para and manual wheelchair user. The Nelsons got into the mobility equipment business a few years ago when they released The Rig, an electric, adaptive off-road device with a simple yet robust and functional design priced significantly lower than anything else on the market. Now, they’re bringing that same ethos to manual wheelchairs.

Not a Wheelchair aims to offer a base-model, custom manual wheelchair at a similar or better quality than most of the insurance-approved wheelchairs in the U.S. for $999.

Yes, that’s just under $1,000 for everything — wheels, handrims, tires, side guards and rigid, angle-adjustable backrest included. And the company plans to have a turnaround time of weeks, rather than the monthslong slog that it typically takes from order to delivery.

When I first heard about this, it sounded awesome and a bit far-fetched. It’s hard to find a pair of quality wheelchair wheels for less than $500. Same with a rigid backrest. How were they going to offer both, plus a custom wheelchair frame without compromising on quality? I drove to their headquarters in Utah to find out...

So how does Not a Wheelchair’s base model chair stack up to other options on the market? I hate to sound like a preacher, but … it’s totally reasonable! It hits the mark of being at least as good, if not better, than the majority of insurance-approved wheelchairs in the U.S.

Touring the factory, I saw other prototypes scattered all around the facility. There’s a beefier, four-wheel drive version of The Rig that the company just launched. There’s a track wheelchair that’s still in development. It’s clear that Not a Wheelchair doesn’t intend to stop at a simple, manual wheelchair. Inexpensive components, more advanced electric off-road devices, power assist, it’s all on the table. “We’re just really excited to see where this leads,” says Green."

-Article and video via New Mobility, October 1, 2024

[fursasaida]

This article is from 2022, but it came up in the context of Palestine:

Here are some striking passages, relevant to all colonial aftermaths but certainly also to the forms we see Zionist reaction taking at the moment:

Over the decade I lived in South Africa, I became fascinated by this white minority [i.e. the whole white population post-apartheid as a minority in the country], particularly its members who considered themselves progressive. They reminded me of my liberal peers in America, who had an apparently self-assured enthusiasm about the coming of a so-called majority-minority nation. As with white South Africans who had celebrated the end of apartheid, their enthusiasm often belied, just beneath the surface, a striking degree of fear, bewilderment, disillusionment, and dread.

[...]

Yet these progressives’ response to the end of apartheid was ambivalent. Contemplating South Africa after apartheid, an Economist correspondent observed that “the lives of many whites exude sadness.” The phenomenon perplexed him. In so many ways, white life remained more or less untouched, or had even improved. Despite apartheid’s horrors—and the regime’s violence against those who worked to dismantle it—the ANC encouraged an attitude of forgiveness. It left statues of Afrikaner heroes standing and helped institute the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which granted amnesty to some perpetrators of apartheid-era political crimes.

But as time wore on, even wealthy white South Africans began to radiate a degree of fear and frustration that did not match any simple economic analysis of their situation. A startling number of formerly anti-apartheid white people began to voice bitter criticisms of post-apartheid society. An Afrikaner poet who did prison time under apartheid for aiding the Black-liberation cause wrote an essay denouncing the new Black-led country as “a sewer of betrayed expectations and thievery, fear and unbridled greed.”

What accounted for this disillusionment? Many white South Africans told me that Black forgiveness felt like a slap on the face. By not acting toward you as you acted toward us, we’re showing you up, white South Africans seemed to hear. You’ll owe us a debt of gratitude forever.

The article goes on to discuss:

"Mau Mau anxiety," or the fear among whites of violent repercussions, and how this shows up in reported vs confirmed crime stats - possibly to the point of false memories of home invasion

A sense of irrelevance and alienation among this white population, leading to another anxiety: "do we still belong here?"

The sublimation of this anxiety into self-identification as a marginalized minority group, featuring such incredible statements as "I wanted to fight for Afrikaners, but I came to think of myself as a ‘liberal internationalist,’ not a white racist...I found such inspiration from the struggles of the Catalonians and the Basques. Even Tibet" and "[Martin Luther] King [Jr.] also fought for a people without much political representation … That’s why I consider him one of my most important forebears and heroes,” from a self-declared liberal environmentalist who also thinks Afrikaaners should take back government control because they are "naturally good" at governance

Some discussion of the dynamics underlying these reactions, particularly the fact that "admitting past sins seem[ed] to become harder even as they receded into history," and US parallels

And finally, in closing:

The Afrikaner journalist Rian Malan, who opposed apartheid, has written that, by most measures, its aftermath went better than almost any white person could have imagined. But, as with most white progressives, his experience of post-1994 South Africa has been complicated. [...]

He just couldn’t forgive Black people for forgiving him. Paradoxically, being left undisturbed served as an ever-present reminder of his guilt, of how wrongly he had treated his maid and other Black people under apartheid. “The Bible was right about a thing or two,” he wrote. “It is infinitely worse to receive than to give, especially if … the gift is mercy.”

[luvmanifesting]

You’re still wasting time..

10 minutes ago you could’ve had everything you desired, 3 hours ago you could’ve had everything you desired, 1 week ago you could’ve had everything you desired, 2 seconds ago you could’ve had everything you desired, just after reading this you could’ve had everything you desired.

2024 is almost over and you’re heavily procrastinating for what?

fear?

laziness?

not able to make up your mind on what you want?

waiting for the 3D to confirm?

wanting someone to manifest for you?

whatever it is stop it. because you’re literally withholding yourself from experiencing all the fun things you always dreamed of doing since you were a baby/child with childlike wonder. nobody’s coming to save you, you either dust yourself off and accept the fact you’re god, or you get left behind. some of you are incredibly helpless atp, “i just can’t do anything right!!!” and thats your assumption so now everything you do just isn’t “right”

all you guys do is ask the same questions over and over expecting some sort of new answer, do you want us to pity you..? cry for you? we’re DEFINITELY not inducing pure consciousness for you if thats the case :D.. every time you guys hear about a new method that gives you instant results you immediately put it on the pedestal (STOPPPPPPPPP OMFG) you’re supposed to be the only one on the pedestal 😓 you are too old to be crying over something that’s supposed to be simple and fun, you have all the info you need and yet you over complicate it still. its so easy to cry and complain but its so hard for you to just step forward and acknowledge the power you have? LOA DEFINES ALL LOGIC MANIFESTATION DEFINES ALL LOGIC.

time doesn’t exist

yes you can manifest anything

take this “void state” bs off the pedestal

stop crying

stop saying “oh this success story will give me so much motivation”

if you wanted something badly then you wouldn’t complain and you would do what you have to do to obviously get it right? the thing is you don’t get your desires, because they were always yours from the damn beginning, stop wasting all this fucking time.

[astrxealis]

gna go to a con this december w friends and i've never cosplayed b4 but i Might. and it's either a persona character bcs my friend is going to do rise i think and then my twin and i joked we cld do a persona chara too (akira or akechi for me and naoto or makoto yuki for her prolly) so shes not alone BUT IDK...!!

[nightingale-prompts]

Godling-DCxDP prompt

Many don't understand what it's like to gaze into the abyss. To truly know the haunting moment it gazes back. Even fewer can see still stand to throw themselves into that abyss.

Tim never understood why cultists worship monstrosities, being that promised the end of everything for nothing in return. He had seen the remnants of human sacrifices, rituals gone wrong, and man-made horrors beyond human comprehension. Part of him regretted agreeing to partner with Constantine to solve these cases. But another wanted to know more.

After searching through another half-destroyed tome he found something. A location to a summoning circle, an ancient one that these cultists were searching for. The one they needed to finally successfully summon their god.

But they got there too late. The cult had finished their ritual and the "god" they had summoned stood before them.

That god was...perfect. Disgustingly perfect, dreadfully beautiful, and horrifyingly enchanting. His mind etched every detail in his memory. It felt like his mind had conjured this person from his dreams, day and night. It was like looking at an illusion. But his eyes were a hellishly bright Lazarus green.

The cultist bowed to him and his smile, his perfect unnaturally white smile was full of soft warmth. Tim understood at that moment why they worshipped him. Their minds couldn't escape this web of divine energy. They were so enraptured by finally seeing prove of the divine.

"You all have done enough. Your souls will come with me. To the abyss." He said calmly as he waved his hand and each cultist dissappeared.

He sighed softly as he turned his gave to Tim and John.

"You offed 'em? I thought they were your followers." Constantine said gruffly.

"I have no followers. These souls have caused so much damage to this world. They can't be allowed to stay here."

"So you decided to rapture them?" Constantine raised an eyebrow.

"It's complicated. Yes, they did horrible things but if they hadn't discovered the tomes of the old king they wouldn't have ended up this way. Have pity on them. They are just mortals scared and confused searching for meaning. Like I was. I have sent them to the abyss. Their souls with dissipate into the void. There will be no pain. No eternal punishment. Just an end. They will be at peace, I promise. It is what they want." The god's voice echoed, his features rippled as he moved showing afterimages of alternate forms he used.

It was odd. Every fiber of Tim's being screamed for him to bow, to worship, and to give himself to this being. Yet, his feet remained stubbornly planted on the ancient dusty floor.

"Don't look directly at it," Constantine whispered hissed.

Right. You probably shouldn't stare at the otherworldy being that likely has mind warping abilities. Especially one that just said he erased his own followers from existence and saying it was a good thing.

"I'm really sorry. I should make it up to you. Clockwork will be pissed enough that I interfereed so I have to do something to at least make up for this mess."

"You can kick off by doing one and buggering off" Constantine said immediately.

"So cold. How about you? What do you want?"

"I think an explanation would help," Tim said only to get elbowed by Constantine.

"You ain't gotta know nothing, mate. The more we know, the dodgier it gets." Constantine said firmly. "Whatever you are, you need to bugger off. You’ll wreck the noggins of everyone around you."

"I don't mean to. I don't ask people to become obsessed with me or worship me. Mortals have such weak minds they cave at my presence. But I can't help it. I lost my human body recently and can't turn this off."

The being groaned but to human ears it was similar to a purr.

"Seriously, everything I do is filtered through some sensory thing that makes you little mortals think its the greatest thing ever no matter how simple. Touching you would probably melt your brain with how good it would feel. So the trench coat man is probably right."

"You said you lost your human body. How?" Tim asked still staring at the floor as he felt the godling came closer.

"A bad fight. My mortal form wasn't indestructible but saving my family made it more than worth it. But...I haven't seen them since. Im still getting used to this while thing. I just wanted to reach out and find some answers so i reached into this universe and well...you can probably tell what happened next. I just wanted to make it right and fix it. The other ancients said this was the best option and..."

Every moment he spoke the less godly he seemed.

Constantine still wasn't willing to help and had to drag Tim away. When Tim actually tried to look up the fodling was gone.

"Never do that again." The brit said sternly. "Now help me clean this mess up."

[togglesbloggle]

For the Reverse Unpopular Opinion meme, Lamarckism!

(This is an excellent ask.)

Lamarck got done a bit dirty by the textbooks, as one so often is. He's billed as the guy who articulated an evolutionary theory of inherited characteristics, inevitably set up as an opponent made of straw for Darwin to knock down. The example I recall my own teachers using in grade school was the idea that a giraffe would strain to reach the highest branches of a tree, and as a result, its offspring would be born with slightly longer necks. Ha-ha-ha, isn't-that-silly, isn't natural selection so much more sensible?

But the thing is, this wasn't his idea, not even close. People have been running with ideas like that since antiquity at least. What Lamarck did was to systematize that claim, in the context of a wider and much more interesting theory.

Lamarck was born in to an era where natural philosophy was slowly giving way to Baconian science in the modern sense- that strange, eighteenth century, the one caught in an uneasy tension between Newton the alchemist and Darwin the naturalist. This is the century of Ben Franklin and his key and his kite, and the awed discovery that this "electricity" business was somehow involved in living organisms- the discovery that paved the way for Shelley's Frankenstein. This was the era when alchemy was fighting its last desperate battles with chemistry, when the division between 'organic' and 'inorganic' chemistry was fundamental- the first synthesis of organic molecules in the laboratory wouldn't occur until 1828, the year before Lamarck's death. We do not have atoms, not yet. Mendel and genetics are still more than a century away; we won't even have cells for another half-century or more.

Lamarck stepped in to that strange moment. I don't think he was a bold revolutionary, really, or had much interest in being one. He was profoundly interested in the structure and relationships between species, and when we're not using him as a punching bag in grade schools, some people manage to remember that he was a banging good taxonomist, and made real progress in the classification of invertebrates. He started life believing in the total immutability of species, but later was convinced that evolution really was occurring- not because somebody taught him in the classroom, or because it was the accepted wisdom of the time, but through deep, continued exposure to nature itself. He was convinced by the evidence of his senses.

(Mostly snails.)

His problem was complexity. When he'd been working as a botanist, he had this neat little idea to order organisms by complexity, starting with the grubbiest, saddest little seaweed or fern, up through lovely flowering plants. This was not an evolutionary theory, just an organizing structure; essentially, just a sort of museum display. But when he was asked to do the same thing with invertebrates, he realized rather quickly that this task had problems. A linear sorting from simple to complex seemed embarrassingly artificial, because it elided too many different kinds of complexity, and ignored obvious similarities and shared characteristics.

When he went back to the drawing board, he found better organizing schema; you'd recognize them today. There were hierarchies, nested identities. Simple forms with only basic, shared anatomical patterns, each functioning as a sort of superset implying more complex groups within it, defined additively by the addition of new organs or structures in the body. He'd made a taxonomic tree.

Even more shockingly, he realized something deep and true in what he was looking at: this wasn't just an abstract mapping of invertebrates to a conceptual diagram of their structures. This was a map in time. Complexities in invertebrates- in all organisms!- must have been accumulating in simpler forms, such that the most complicated organisms were also the youngest.

This is the essential revolution of Lamarckian evolution, not the inherited characteristics thing. His theory, in its full accounting, is actually quite elaborate. Summarized slightly less badly than it is in your grade school classroom (though still pretty badly, I'm by no means an expert on this stuff), it looks something like this:

As we all know, animals and plants are sometimes generated ex nihilo in different places, like maggots spontaneously appearing in middens. However, the spontaneous generation of life is much weaker than we have supposed; it can only result in the most basic, simple organisms (e.g. polyps). All the dizzying complexity we see in the world around us must have happened iteratively, in a sequence over time that operated on inheritance between one organism and its descendants.

As we all know, living things are dynamic in relation to inorganic matter, and this vital power includes an occasional tendency to gain in complexity. However, this tendency is not a spiritual or supernatural effect; it's a function of natural, material processes working over time. Probably this has something to do with fluids such as 'heat' and 'electricity' which are known to concentrate in living tissues. When features appear spontaneously in an organism, that should be understood as an intrinsic propensity of the organism itself, rather than being caused by the environment or by a divine entity. There is a specific, definite, and historically contingent pattern in which new features can appear in existing organisms.

As we all know, using different tissue groups more causes them to be expressed more in your descendants, and disuse weakens them in the same way. However, this is not a major feature in the development of new organic complexity, since it could only move 'laterally' on the complexity ladder and will never create new organs or tissue groups. At most, you might see lineages move from ape-like to human-like or vice versa, or between different types of birds or something; it's an adaptive tendency that helps organisms thrive in different environments. In species will less sophisticated neural systems, this will be even less flexible, because they can't supplement it with willpower the way that complex vertebrates can.

Lamarck isn't messing around here; this is a real, genuinely interesting model of the world. And what I think I'm prepared to argue here is that Lamarck's biggest errors aren't his. He has his own blind spots and mistakes, certainly. The focus on complexity is... fraught, at a minimum. But again and again, what really bites him in the ass is just his failure to break with his inherited assumptions enough. The parts of this that are actually Lamarckian, that is, are the ideas of Lamarck, are very clearly groping towards a recognizable kind of proto-evolutionary theory.

What makes Lamarck a punching bag in grade-school classes today is the same thing that made it interesting; it's that it was the best and most scientific explanation of biological complexity available at the time. It was the theory to beat, the one that had edged out all the other competitors and emerged as the most useful framework of the era. And precisely none of that complexity makes it in to our textbooks; they use "Lamarckianism" to refer to arguments made by freaking Aristotle, and which Lamarck himself accepted but de-emphasized as subordinate processes. What's even worse, Darwin didn't reject this mechanism either. Darwin was totally on board with the idea as a possible adaptive tendency; he just didn't particularly need it for his theory.

Lamarck had nothing. Not genetics, not chromosomes, not cells, not atomic theory. Geology was a hot new thing! Heat was a liquid! What Lamarck had was snails. And on the basis of snails, Lamarck deduced a profound theory of complexity emerging over time, of the biosphere as a(n al)chemical process rather than a divine pageant, of gradual adaptation punctuated by rapid innovation. That's incredible.

There's a lot of falsehood in the Lamarckian theory of evolution, and it never managed to entirely throw off the sloppy magical thinking of what came before. But his achievement was to approach biology and taxonomy with a profound scientific curiosity, and to improve and clarify our thinking about those subjects so dramatically that a theory of biology could finally, triumphantly, be proven wrong. Lamarck is falsifiable. That is a victory of the highest order.

[bueckets]

The Prophecy | Part 2

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Parts: Part One | Two (you're here) | Three

Description: A weekend in Connecticut changes everything. On the court, you and Paige Bueckers are rivals, a clash of titans in a game where perfection is the only currency. Off the court, it’s different. Walls come down, secrets spill, and for a fleeting moment, hearts connect in ways you never thought possible.

But nothing perfect lasts.

WC: 7.9k

Authors Notes: heavy angst, heavy smut, heavy romance n fluff...... somehow all in one. i'm sorry have not proof read as usual

You wake up slowly, sunlight creeping through unfamiliar curtains. For a moment, disorientation fogs your mind. Then it clicks: Paige's room. Paige's bed. Paige’s sweatshirt draped over your shoulders, soft and impossibly warm. It smells like her—clean and fresh, a little bit like lavender, a little bit like something uniquely Paige.

Your eyes drift to the floor, and there she is, stretched out on her makeshift bed. Her face is half-buried in her pillow, hair spilled in golden waves, catching the light in a way that makes it hard to look away. There’s something unguarded about her, something soft and peaceful that tugs at a place deep in your chest.

She stirs, eyes fluttering open, and for a moment, they’re hazy, unfocused. Then they land on you. The corner of her mouth quirks up, and suddenly it feels like the morning itself is holding its breath.

“Hi,” she whispers, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Hi,” you whisper back, your own voice quieter than you expect.

Her gaze flickers to the sweatshirt, oversized and worn, hanging loosely on you. “You’re wearing my sweatshirt.”

“You gave it to me,” you say, feeling your cheeks warm.

"Looks better on you."

Her smile grows a little, and it’s devastating—soft and genuine, with just the faintest edge of teasing. Your heart stumbles, unsure whether to run away or fall forward.

She pushes herself upright, the blanket sliding off her shoulders. Her hair is a mess, and there’s a crease from the pillow on her cheek, and yet she still manages to make the simple act of waking up feel like poetry.

“I should, um, ” You start to move, unsure of where to go, just knowing the air between you feels suddenly electric.

"Wait," she says softly. You freeze, half-sitting.

Paige hesitates, like she’s searching for the right words, then sits on the edge of the bed. Her knee brushes yours lightly, and it sends a ripple of awareness through you. She’s close—so close you can see the faint freckles across her nose, the tiny scar just above her eyebrow, the way her eyes hold flecks of amber that catch the light.

“I just, ” She starts, then falters, her gaze dropping for a moment. When she looks back up, it lingers on your lips, just briefly, just enough to make your breath catch.

"Paige?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you going to kiss me?"

Her eyes widen slightly, and her breath hitches. “I was thinking about it.”

You lean forward just a fraction, feeling your pulse quicken. “Just thinking?”

“Well,” her voice drops to a near whisper, “I’m also thinking about how complicated this could get.”

Your heart pounds. “What else?”

“I’m thinking,” she leans in the tiniest bit closer, her lips nearly brushing yours, “about how none of that feels as important as this does right now.”

The tension between you is thick enough to drown in, and the world outside fades until it’s just her—the warmth of her body so close to yours, the hitch in her breathing, the slight tremble of her hand as she lets it rest near yours.

“So?” you murmur, your voice barely audible.

“So,” she says, her lips curving faintly, “I’m thinking I really want to kiss you.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing her wrist, and feel the quick, fluttering rhythm of her pulse. “Then why haven’t you?”

Her smile turns soft, almost nervous. “Because once I do, everything changes.”

“Maybe,” you whisper, leaning just close enough to feel her breath, “it already has.”

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s her, maybe it’s you, or maybe it’s both of you at once. But suddenly her lips are on yours, and the rest of the world ceases to exist.

The kiss is tentative at first, gentle and searching, like you’re both testing the waters of something impossibly fragile. Then her hand comes up to cup your face, her thumb brushing your cheek, and you melt into the touch, letting the moment deepen.

She sighs softly against your lips, a sound so intimate it makes your chest ache. Your hands slide into her hair, tangling in the soft strands, and she responds by kissing you harder, deeper.

It’s everything you didn’t know you needed. She tastes like hope and possibility and a thousand stolen glances finally realized. Your heartbeat feels like it’s trying to escape your chest, your breath comes faster, and all you can think is more, more, more.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathing hard. Her forehead rests against yours, her eyes still closed, and you feel the faintest smile ghost across her lips.

“Wow,” she whispers, her voice still shaky.

"Yeah," you manage, equally breathless.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, and the way she looks at you—soft, hopeful, like you’re something worth believing in—makes your heart stumble all over again.

“You okay?” she asks, her fingers brushing lightly against your cheek.

You laugh quietly, still trying to catch your breath. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

“Yeah?” Her smile widens, playful now. “How long is a while?”

You hesitate, then grin sheepishly. “Remember that coffee story you posted?”

She groans, burying her face against your shoulder. “That long?”

“Maybe longer.”

You feel her smile against your skin, and she lifts her head to look at you again, her eyes sparkling. “So what you’re saying is I affect your perfect shot percentage?”

“Shut up.”

She laughs, and it’s warm and familiar, and before you can stop yourself, you’re kissing her again.

When you finally pull back, she’s grinning, looking thoroughly disheveled in the best way.

“Still think you affect my game?” you tease, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs, her fingers trailing lightly against the collar of her sweatshirt you’re wearing. “Guess we’ll find out in March."

And there it is—the future neither of you wants to think about right now. But before you can spiral, she's kissing you again, soft and sure, like a promise.

"But that's not today," she whispers against your lips.

"No," you agree, pulling her closer. "It's not."

Outside, the campus is waking up. Soon you'll have to deal with reality—practice, teammates, the complicated dance of being rivals and whatever this is becoming. But right now, in the soft morning light of her room, with her lips on yours and her hands in your hair, there's only this:

The way she sighs your name.

The flutter of her pulse under your fingertips.

The feeling that maybe, just maybe, some things are worth the risk.

You kiss her again, and again, each one feeling like a new discovery. Like solving an equation you didn't know needed solving. Like hitting a shot you were always meant to make.

Perfect.

You meant to head back to your hotel after breakfast. Really. But then Paige asked if you wanted to see UConn's practice facility ("Just to check out the competition"), and suddenly you're walking into the most storied gym in women's basketball, her fingers brushing yours every few steps.

The team's already warming up when you enter. The balls stop bouncing one by one as players notice you. Even in practice gear—borrowed from Paige, which is definitely not making you feel things—you command attention.

"Well," a familiar voice echoes through the gym. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence."

Geno Auriemma. The legend himself.

"Coach," you nod respectfully.

He looks you up and down, that famous half-smile playing at his lips. "You know, when we tried to recruit you, I told your parents you'd look good in UConn blue."

"Still trying to recruit me, Coach?"

"Can you blame me?" He gestures to the banners overhead. “Though, word is you're making quite a legacy at Harvard."

You catch Paige trying not to smile. "Just trying to keep up with your squad, sir."

"Show us," he says suddenly. "What all the fuss is about."

The gym goes silent. Even the assistants stop what they're doing.

"Coach," Paige starts, but you're already grabbing a ball.

"Any particular spot?" you ask innocently.

Geno's eyes glint. "Surprise me."

You bounce the ball once, twice. The rhythm settles into your bones like it always does. The physics of it all unfolds in your mind—force vectors, arc trajectories, air resistance.

Then you close your eyes.

The gasps echo through the gym before the ball even hits the net. Perfect swish from half-court.

"Again," Geno says quietly.

You hit from the corner. From the logo. Behind the backboard. Each shot more impossible than the last, each one pure silk. The team's not even pretending to practice anymore, just watching in awe.

"One more," Geno calls out. “Make it interesting.” He calls you by your last name.

You lock eyes with Paige, and something passes between you. A challenge. A promise.

"Anyone want to play defense?" you ask.

The gym erupts. Five players step up immediately—all starters except Paige, who's watching you with something that makes your skin buzz.

"Five on one?" Geno raises an eyebrow. "Bold."

You just smile.

What happens next will probably end up on Twitter within the hour. You move like water through their defense, each dribble calculated, each step precise. A behind-the-back that sends Caroline spinning. A crossover that nearly breaks Tessa's ankles. By the time you rise up for the shot, the defense is scattered like bowling pins.

Nothing but net.

The gym explodes. Players are screaming, filming, shaking their heads in disbelief. But you only register Paige's expression—proud and hungry all at once.

"Happy?" you ask Geno.

He's trying not to look impressed. Failing. "You sure I can't convince you to transfer?"

"Sorry, Coach. My heart's already spoken for." Your eyes flick to Paige for a fraction of a second. "Harvard's home."

The practice continues, and somehow you get roped into running drills with them. It's surreal—playing alongside these girls instead of against them. Especially Paige. The way you move together on court, like you can read each other's minds, has even Geno shaking his head.

"God really did create a perfect basketball player," you hear him mutter after you and Paige execute a no-look give-and-go that ends in a reverse layup.

After practice, you're all sprawled on the court, exhausted but buzzing. Your head's in Paige's lap—friendly enough to seem casual, intimate enough to make your heart race. The team's arguing about dinner plans when your phone buzzes.

"Rocket," Sierra's text reads, "stop breaking ankles at UConn and call me. I need details 👀"

Paige reads it over your shoulder and laughs. Her fingers are playing absently with your hair, and you wonder if everyone can hear your heart pounding.

"You know," Caroline says thoughtfully, "you two are either gonna be the greatest rivalry in college basketball."

"Or?" Paige asks, her hand stilling in your hair.

Caroline grins. "Or something else entirely."

Later that night, back in Paige's room, the energy shifts. You're both aware that tomorrow you head back to Harvard. Back to being rivals instead of whatever this is.

"Stay," she whispers against your lips, and this time you don't even pretend to argue about sleeping arrangements.

Her bed is small, forcing you to tangle together, every point of contact electric. You talk in whispers even though there's no one to hear—about basketball, about dreams, about the way this thing between you feels both impossible and inevitable.

"What are we doing?" she asks softly, tracing patterns on your skin.

"Getting into trouble," you murmur back, but you're smiling.

She kisses you then, slow and deep, like she's trying to memorize the feel of it. Like she knows these moments are stolen, precious because they're forbidden.

"Worth it," she breathes against your mouth.

Her lips linger on yours, swollen and glistening from the fervent exchange, but it’s her hands that steal your breath entirely. One traces the curve of your hip, a teasing promise of what’s to come, while the other dips lower, testing the heat between your thighs. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she murmurs, her voice low, husky, vibrating against your collarbone as she kisses her way down, each touch deliberate, reverent.

You can’t answer, not in words. The way your body arches into her touch, the hitch in your breath, the soft sound that escapes your lips—those are your answers, undeniable and raw.

“Good,” she breathes, her fingers curling around the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down slowly, almost torturously. The air feels cold against your bare skin, but then she’s there, her breath warm, her hands firm and sure as they spread your thighs wider.

The first press of her tongue is electric, like lightning racing up your spine. She moves with precision, her fingers parting you as her tongue explores every sensitive inch, coaxing moans from you that you didn’t know you could make. She hums in satisfaction, the vibrations adding another layer of pleasure that makes your hips buck against her.

“Stay still,” she murmurs, though the command is half-lost in the mess of you. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you in place as she dives deeper, her tongue swirling, teasing, her lips closing around your most sensitive spot to suck gently before flicking it again. The rhythm she sets is maddening, relentless, a perfect balance of pressure and pace.

Your hands find her hair, tangling in the golden waves as you try to ground yourself against the rising tide of sensation. She takes it as encouragement, slipping a finger inside you, then another, curling them just so, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. She moans against you, the sound guttural and raw, and it’s too much, too good.

“Paige,” you gasp, her name a prayer, a plea, as you shatter beneath her, your body trembling, every nerve alight. She doesn’t stop, drawing out every last wave of your release until you’re panting, boneless, completely undone.

Her mouth lingers, slow and insistent, drinking in every gasp and tremor she pulls from you. Paige is relentless, her tongue working you with precision, her fingers curling just right inside you as if she’s memorized every little sound you make, every shift of your hips. When she finally eases up, her lips leaving a final, teasing kiss against your trembling heat, she doesn’t pull away completely. Instead, she slides up your body, her fingers tracing a path up your thighs, over your stomach, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

She’s grinning, a little smug, her lips glistening, her eyes dark and wild. “You know,” she murmurs, her voice low and rasping, “you’re so goddamn sexy when you play. The way you move… the way you take control.”

Her words are a spark, reigniting the fire already coursing through you. You pull her down, kissing her fiercely, tasting yourself on her tongue, a mix of sweetness and salt and Paige. It’s intoxicating, like she’s everywhere, filling every corner of your senses.

“I could say the same about you,” you breathe between kisses, your hands sliding under her shirt, finding the warmth of her skin. “The way you take the court, like it’s yours… fuck, Paige.”

Her laugh is low, breathy, against your lips. “Show me, then. Show me how much you like it.”

You flip her gently, taking her by surprise as she falls back against the sheets, her golden hair fanned out like a halo. She’s stunning, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted as she gazes up at you with a hunger that mirrors your own. You kiss her again, slower this time, savoring the way she melts under you, the way her body arches to meet yours, desperate for contact.

Your lips leave hers to trail down her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her collarbone. Each kiss draws a shiver from her, her hands gripping your back, nails digging into your skin as you take your time exploring her. You pull her shirt up and over her head, baring her to the soft light spilling through the window.

“God,” you murmur, your voice thick, your hands tracing the curve of her waist, the softness of her stomach, the strength in her arms. “You’re perfect.”

She groans softly, pulling you down to her, her legs tangling with yours. “Stop looking at me like that and do something about it.”

You grin, pressing a kiss just below her ear, then lower, your lips and tongue finding every sensitive spot as you work your way down. Her body responds to you like music, every sigh and gasp and moan drawing you further, making you crave more. When your lips finally find her, the sound she makes—half gasp, half cry—is enough to send a fresh wave of heat through you.

“Shit,” she whispers, her hips bucking against you as your tongue moves, deliberate and slow. Her hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and you can feel the way her body shakes under your touch, her breath coming faster, her voice breaking as she pleads for more.

You give it to her, taking your time, savoring the way she falls apart for you, how her voice grows louder, her grip tighter, until she finally comes undone, her body trembling, her cries echoing in your ears like a song.

You kiss your way back up her body, slow and deliberate, her skin warm and flushed beneath your lips. When you reach her mouth, she pulls you into a kiss so deep it feels like she’s trying to claim you, her hands roaming over you, pulling you closer, needing you like air.

“I’m not done with you,” she murmurs, her voice rough but soft, her hands slipping between your thighs, finding you already aching for her again.

“Paige," you whisper, but she silences you with a kiss, her touch unrelenting as she presses you back into the sheets.

Her body moves against yours, perfectly in sync, her touch everywhere at once—gentle and firm, teasing and demanding. The world narrows to just her, the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin, the way her body feels pressed against yours as she takes you apart piece by piece, only to put you back together again with her hands, her lips, her love.

And when you both finally collapse, spent and tangled together, her head resting on your chest, the room feels impossibly still, the air thick with everything unsaid but understood. You stroke her hair absently, your breathing slowing, your heart still racing in tandem with hers.

“Still think I’m sexy when I play?” she teases softly, her voice muffled against your skin.

You laugh, pulling her closer. “I think you’re sexy all the time.”

Her lips curve against your chest in a satisfied smile. “Good. Because I’m never letting you forget it.”

Her breath evens out against your shoulder, her body soft and pliant as she molds herself to your side. The room is quiet now, save for the occasional rustle of the sheets and the distant hum of the campus stirring to life outside. You stroke her hair absentmindedly, the golden strands slipping like silk through your fingers, and she hums softly, her hand draped across your stomach, anchoring you to the moment.

But as the heat of the night begins to fade, something else creeps in—a faint, nagging ache in your chest that you can’t quite ignore. You close your eyes, trying to push it away, to focus on the rise and fall of her breath, the warmth of her skin against yours. But it’s there, stubborn and persistent: the thought of March, of bright lights and roaring crowds, of her on the other side of the court, no longer your lover but your rival.

She stirs, tilting her head up to look at you, her eyes soft and half-lidded, her lips swollen from your kisses. “What’s on your mind?” she murmurs, her voice thick with exhaustion and something sweeter.

You hesitate, your fingers stilling in her hair. “Just thinking.”

“About?” she prompts, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your stomach.

“March,” you admit finally, your voice barely above a whisper. The word feels heavy in the quiet, like a pebble dropped into still water.

Her gaze sharpens slightly, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she shifts closer, pressing a kiss to your chest, just above your heart. “It’s just a game,” she says softly, but there’s something in her tone that tells you she knows it’s more than that.

You shake your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Not to me. Not to you, either.”

She doesn’t deny it, her silence speaking louder than words. For a moment, you’re both quiet, the weight of what’s coming settling between you. It’s a strange, bittersweet ache—the knowledge that this, whatever it is, will be tested, challenged by the world beyond this room.

But then she lifts her head, her eyes locking with yours, and there’s something fierce in her gaze, something unshakable. “When we’re out there, I’ll play to win. You know that, right?”

“Of course,” you reply, your voice steady, even as your chest tightens. “And I’ll do the same.”

Her lips curve into a small, knowing smile, and she leans up to kiss you, slow and lingering, like she’s trying to hold onto this moment as tightly as you are. “Good,” she whispers against your lips. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

When she settles back down, her head resting on your chest once more, you let yourself relax, let the tension bleed away, if only for a little while. There’s still time before March, before the lights and the pressure and the impossible stakes. For now, there’s only her, her hand in yours, her body warm and safe against your own.

And as sleep begins to pull you under, you can’t help but think that whatever happens—whatever the game brings, whatever the world throws at you—it’ll be worth it. Because for all the risks, all the complications, all the things that might break you, there’s one thing you know for sure: she’s worth it. She always will be.

Sunday morning comes too fast, the sunlight pooling around you, unforgiving in its insistence that the world outside Paige’s room still exists. You stir under the blanket, her warmth pressed against your side, her hand resting on your stomach. You don’t want to move; if you’re honest, you don’t want the day to come at all.

She sighs softly in her sleep, her breath feathering against your shoulder, and it hits you again—how impossibly beautiful she looks like this, messy and undone, tangled in sheets that still carry the weight of last night. You turn your head slightly, pressing a kiss to her forehead, the act so natural it startles you.

Her eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep, but the corner of her mouth curves when she sees you. “Morning,” she murmurs, her voice rough and slow, like gravel wrapped in velvet.

“Morning,” you reply, your hand brushing the wild strands of hair from her face.

Neither of you moves, the silence stretching out, too fragile to break. But it’s there—the inevitable pull of the day, dragging you closer to the goodbye you’re not ready to say. You try to ignore it, try to focus on the way her fingers trace lazy circles on your skin, the way her body fits so perfectly against yours.

“Do you have to go?” she asks finally, her voice soft, but there’s a weight behind it, a quiet desperation that pulls at your chest.

You hesitate, because the truth feels too heavy to say out loud. “Jasmine’s waiting for me.”

She doesn’t argue, just presses her face into your neck, her breath warm against your skin. “Five more minutes.”

You laugh softly, your arms tightening around her. “We said that an hour ago.”

“And yet, here we are,” she teases, but her smile falters as she pulls back to look at you. “Stay.”

Her voice is a whisper, but it carries the force of a command, and for a moment, you’re tempted to throw everything to the wind. Forget Harvard, forget practice, forget the looming storm of March Madness. But reality claws at the edges of the moment, a reminder you can’t ignore.

“I can’t,” you say quietly, and it feels like the words cut both of you.

Her fingers tighten in the fabric of your (her) hoodie, and for a second, you think she’s going to argue, but instead, she leans up, her lips brushing yours in a kiss so soft it feels like it might shatter. It lingers, slow and tender, like she’s trying to memorize the feel of you, trying to hold onto something she knows she can’t keep.

When you finally pull away, her eyes are bright, a mix of emotions you can’t untangle. “Promise me something,” she says, her voice trembling slightly.

“Anything.”

“Don’t let this scare you,” she whispers. “Not what people think, not what’s coming. Don’t let it ruin this.”

You swallow hard, the weight of her words settling in your chest. “I won’t,” you say, and you mean it, even if you don’t know how.

She nods, her smile small but real, and when you kiss her one last time, it feels like a promise.

Later, as you stand in the doorway, your bag slung over your shoulder, the goodbye feels heavier than you expected. Paige leans against the doorframe, her hair a mess, her lips still pink from your kisses, and it takes everything in you not to turn back.

“Text me when you get home,” she says, her attempt at casual missing by miles.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice tight. “I will.”

You make it three steps before you stop, turning back. She’s still there, still watching, and you close the distance in two strides, your lips meeting hers in one last, desperate kiss. When you pull away, her hand lingers on your arm, and for a moment, you’re certain you’ll never want anything as much as you want her.

“Bye,” you whisper, and it feels like the hardest word you’ve ever said.

“Bye, Rocket,” she replies, her smile bittersweet.

You leave before you can change your mind, the burning in your chest growing stronger with every step. The train ride back to Harvard is a blur, your mind replaying every moment, every touch, every stolen glance. By the time you walk into your apartment, Sierra is already waiting, her face lighting up with a mix of excitement and disbelief when she sees you.

But you barely hear her questions, barely register Jasmine showing you the Twitter feeds and SportsCenter highlights. All you can think about is Paige—her laugh, her touch, the way she said your name like it was something sacred.

And as you lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, you can’t shake the thought that March is coming too fast. The court will be the same, the stakes higher than ever, but everything feels different now. Because you know, deep down, that every pass, every drive, every shot will carry the weight of her eyes on you, her voice in your head, her heart in your hands.

And you can’t decide if that makes you stronger—or breaks you completely.

Monday’s practice doesn’t do you any favors. You walk in wearing a neutral hoodie—because you’re not that reckless—but Coach Matthews still gives you a pointed once-over.

“Nice sweatshirt,” she says, her tone dry as Arizona in July.

You open your mouth to deny, deflect, anything—but Sierra beats you to it. “She’s just branching out,” she quips, smirking. “UConn blue really brings out her eyes.”

You’re going to kill her. Slowly. Later. For now, you bury yourself in drills, sinking three after three like muscle memory is your only salvation. Except it’s not, because every damn movement feels like Paige. The way she drives to the basket. The way her passes always find the perfect angle. The way her eyes tracked you during that stupid, unforgettable practice.

The team, bless their nosy little hearts, doesn’t let up either. “Is it true you took on UConn’s starting five?” one asks.

“Did Geno actually try to steal you? Again?”

“Are you and Paige…?”

You hit another three, harder than necessary, and stalk to the water cooler. Sierra sidles up, because of course she does.

“Hey,” she says, not unkindly. “You good?”

“Define good,” you reply, sarcasm sharp enough to cut.

Sierra, annoyingly perceptive, just shrugs. “The team’s just curious. You’re their golden girl, and now you’re maybe-sorta-kinda in love with your biggest rival. It’s a lot.”

“I’m not—” you start, but your phone lights up, and your face does the thing again. The soft, stupid, smiley thing.

“Sure,” Sierra says, smirking. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The texts come later that night. Paige, as usual, doesn’t mince words.

so, how much trouble are we in?

You smirk at your phone, typing back.

none, if you keep your team’s mouths shut.

i can handle them. Can you handle yours?

You glance at Sierra’s empty room, Jasmine’s closed door.

yeah. for now.

Three dots. Then:

good. because i’m not letting this go.

The words make your chest ache, in a good way. In a dangerous way. But for now, it’s just a secret. A sweatshirt in your bag, a name on your screen, a quiet understanding that some things are better kept out of the spotlight.

And if the storm comes anyway? You’ll handle it when it does. Together.

The train hums beneath you, steady and rhythmic, a backdrop to the swirling haze of your thoughts. The sweatshirt Paige gave you is folded neatly on your lap, its scent still faintly there—lavender, sharp cedar, and something else that you can’t quite name but know you’d recognize in a heartbeat.

You should be sleeping. Or staring out the window at the blurred winter landscape, pretending to be reflective and moody, but instead, you’re staring at your phone like a lovesick teenager. Which, technically, you are.

Her last text sits at the top of the screen, smug in its simplicity. 

miss you already. text me when you get home.

You’ve read it so many times, the words have started to blur. Miss you already. Like you’re something worth missing. Like the weekend hadn’t just been everything.

The old lady across the aisle glances at you, her eyebrows furrowing like she can smell the heart eyes from her seat. You flip your phone facedown and pretend to be fascinated by the guy three rows ahead eating a tuna sandwich like it’s his last meal. Anything to stop replaying the way Paige had kissed you goodbye—slow, deep, like she was trying to memorize it.

But then the phone buzzes again, and you’re quick, too quick, fumbling it upright.

also, if you don’t tell Sierra where you were this weekend, i will. and I’ll make it sound worse than it was. or better. depends on the mood i’m in.

You snort, the sound startling the old lady. Her scowl deepens. You type back without thinking:

what, you’re not gonna give me a chance to come up with a good lie?

The reply is instant.

you’re terrible at lying, rocket. stick to shooting.

It’s not fair, how easily she does this—makes you grin like an idiot in the middle of a public space. The train announces your stop, the crackling intercom pulling you out of whatever spell Paige had you under, and you tuck your phone away, the sweatshirt pressed tightly under your arm.

Sierra greets you with a smirk and a raised eyebrow when you walk into the apartment. “You look disgustingly happy.”

“I am happy,” you reply, trying to fight the smile creeping up your face.

“That’s what worries me.” She leans against the counter, studying you. “How was your little rivalry trip?”

“Fine,” you say, brushing past her and heading for your room.

She laughs. “Fine. Sure. Whatever you say, Rocket.”

Inside your room, you toss your bag onto the bed and pull out your phone. Paige’s name stares back at you from the screen, your last conversation still open. You hesitate, wondering if texting too soon makes you seem clingy, then roll your eyes at yourself and type:

made it back. already miss that sweaty gym smell.

Her reply comes almost instantly.

liar. you loved it. miss you more.

You can’t help the stupid grin that spreads across your face, the warmth it brings despite the cold draft creeping through your window. This feels easy. Natural. Like she’s right there with you instead of miles away in Storrs.

You slide onto your bed, fingers poised to type something clever back, but instead, you pause. The sweatshirt is still in your lap, soft and worn, and you tug it over your head without thinking. It’s oversized, hanging loose on your frame, but it feels good. It feels like her.

Your phone buzzes again, and you glance at the screen.

don’t sleep in my hoodie. you’ll ruin it.

You snort, typing back:

already wearing it.

Her reply is almost instant:

figures. good night, rocket. dream of me.

always.

You don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep until your alarm wakes you the next morning, the phone still clutched in your hand and Paige’s name still glowing on the screen.

For the first week, it’s effortless. Every day feels like an extension of that weekend—texts flying back and forth, calls that stretch into the early hours of the morning, your voices sleepy but refusing to let go. She sends you pictures of her sneakers (“new kicks, who dis”), blurry photos of her teammates making dumb faces in the locker room, even a video of her crossing up some poor freshman in practice.

You match her energy, sending her memes, complaining about your coursework, telling her about that one teammate who still can’t figure out a basic pick-and-roll.

It’s easy. Comfortable. Like you’ve been doing this forever.

But then, somewhere in the second week, the rhythm falters.

It’s a Thursday afternoon when you notice it. You’re sitting in the library, a half-empty coffee cup on the desk beside you, when you send her a text.

kill it at practice today?

It takes her three hours to reply.

was okay. tired. you?

You frown at the screen, rereading her words. The response is fine. Normal. But there’s something about it—something flat, like the energy isn’t there.

good. the usual drills. i think Coach is trying to kill us.

This time, the reply comes quicker.

lol. sounds about right.

You stare at the message, waiting for more. A joke, a question, anything. But nothing else comes.

By the end of the week, her texts are starting to feel uneven. Some days, she’s herself again—sending you goofy pictures, teasing you about your shooting form, calling you late at night just to hear your voice. But other days, she’s distant. Replies come slower, shorter, like she’s preoccupied with something she won’t tell you.

You don’t want to push. You know how grueling the season can be, how exhausting the constant practices and travel schedules are. But the unease lingers, settling in your chest like a stone.

One night, you call her. It’s late, almost midnight, and you’ve been staring at the ceiling for an hour, your thoughts too loud to ignore.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.

Her voicemail picks up.

You hang up without leaving a message, tossing your phone onto the nightstand with more force than necessary.

The next morning, you wake up to a text from her:

sorry, fell asleep. long day. Miss you, rocket.

The words feel like a balm, soothing the ache from the night before. You tell yourself not to overthink it, to let it go.

But then it happens again.

A missed call. A delayed reply. Another vague excuse.

You start keeping track without meaning to. Three unanswered texts this week. Two missed calls. A growing list of reasons you tell yourself not to be upset:

She’s busy.

She’s tired.

It’s nothing.

By the fourth week, you’ve stopped texting her first. Not because you’re angry, but because you’re tired. Tired of the one-word replies, the half-hearted conversations, the way she always seems just out of reach.

She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does, and she just doesn’t care.

Either way, the silence grows.

Then, the video hits Twitter on a Tuesday morning.

You’re in Advanced Orbital Mechanics, half-listening as Professor Dillard drones on about transfer orbits and delta-v calculations. His voice is a flat monotone, the kind that barely registers after twenty minutes, but you keep your pen moving, scribbling half-legible equations in your notebook. The classroom is dimly lit, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, and the faint smell of coffee and dry-erase markers clings to the air.

Your phone buzzes once, a sharp vibration against the desk. Then twice. Then again, the rhythm insistent. A few heads turn toward you, their eyes flicking briefly to the offending noise before returning to their own notes. You glance down at the screen, expecting to see the usual: Sierra sending a TikTok link she swears will “change your life,” or Jasmine reminding everyone about the next team meeting.

Instead, the notifications pile up faster than you can track.

Sierra: "don’t check twitter."

Jasmine: "rocket baby i’m so sorry."

Your stomach tightens, unease clawing at your chest. The buzzes don’t stop. One after another, messages flood in—texts from teammates, old friends, people you haven’t spoken to in years. The words blur together, overlapping until they’re nothing but noise.

The team group chat is a wildfire.

"Holy shit"

"Is that really...?"

"When was this?"

"Someone needs to check on Rocket."

You flip your phone over, trying to focus on Dillard’s lecture, but the vibration rattles against the desk, relentless. Finally, you give in, unlocking the screen with shaking fingers.

Twitter opens slowly, the loading circle spinning like it’s mocking you. The first thing you see is the video—top of your feed, trending already.

You don’t want to press play.

But you do.

The footage is shaky, the kind of video that screams “someone was not supposed to be recording this.” The lighting is dim, music pulsing faintly in the background, and it only takes a second for your stomach to drop. You know this place. You know that party. A UConn team event.

You see Paige and Azzi in a dark corner, laughing together. It’s innocent at first—until it isn’t. Azzi’s hand finds Paige’s waist. Paige leans in, her fingers tangling in Azzi’s hair. The way they look at each other—intimate, familiar. Like you’re not even a memory.

And then they’re kissing.

Not a first kiss. Not a hesitant, drunken mistake. This kiss is something else entirely—familiar, practiced.

The caption is almost worse than the video.

"The Prince has found her Princess? 👀 @azzi_35 @paigebueckers"

The phone slips from your hands and lands on the desk with a muted thud. The air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room. The noise draws a glance from the girl sitting next to you, but you don’t meet her eyes. You can’t.

You’re The Prophecy. You’re unshakable. But right now, you’re just a girl who loved someone who made it look so easy to love someone else.

The lecture continues in the background, but it might as well be static. Your mind races, replaying the video in an endless loop, each frame sharper than the last. The way Paige had smiled. The way Azzi had leaned in. The way Paige hadn’t stopped her.

The phone buzzes again.

Sierra: “Where are you? Are you okay?”

Jasmine: “Talk to us, Rocket. Please.”

You don’t reply. You can’t.

Instead, you pack your things in a blur, shoving your notebook and pens into your bag with trembling hands. The professor’s voice follows you to the door, droning on about escape velocity, but you’re already gone.

You don’t cry. The Prophecy doesn’t cry.

Instead, you go to the only place that’s ever made sense: the gym.

The air outside is cold, sharp, biting against your skin as you make your way across campus. You barely notice it. Everything feels muffled, like you’re moving through a fog, the world blurred at the edges. The weight in your chest anchors you, pulling you forward.

The door slams behind you, the echo bouncing off the walls and rattling through the empty bleachers. You don’t bother with the lights. Don’t need them. You’ve made these shots in your sleep.

The air is stale, a mix of old sweat and the faint bite of disinfectant. It settles in your lungs, heavy but familiar. The ball rack sits in its usual spot, the leather scuffed and worn, the only constant thing in a world that’s suddenly upside down.

You grab the first ball you touch, its surface cool and rough under your fingertips. You spin it once, testing the weight. It feels right. Solid.

Your sneakers squeak against the floor as you step to the free-throw line. You take a breath, chest tight, and focus on the rim—a faint outline in the shadows.

Release. Swish.

The sound cuts through the dark, clean and sharp. You grab another ball, your movements quick, automatic. No time to think. Thinking is dangerous.

This time, you picture Paige. Her smile, the way she looked at Azzi in the video—like you weren’t even a memory.

Release. Swish.

Another ball. Her hand in Azzi’s hair. The way they leaned into each other like it was easy. Like it was nothing.

Another ball. Paige laughing, Azzi’s arm around her waist.

Release. Swish.

The way Paige looked at her, like she was her world. Release. Swish.

You move faster, grabbing ball after ball from the rack, launching them with more force each time. Each shot lands clean, cutting through the dark air with sharp precision. The physics is still there, but now it’s powered by something darker. Something raw and jagged.

Release. Swish.

Release. Swish.

Release. Swish.

Your chest heaves, breath shallow, heart pounding against your ribs. You’re not even looking at the rim anymore, just firing into the darkness. Each shot is a missile, and the target is the knot of anger and heartbreak lodged deep inside you.

The rhythm becomes hypnotic: swish, bounce, swish, bounce.

And then it happens.

A memory hits you mid-shot: Paige sitting on the bleachers, chin in her hand, watching you practice. The way she smiled that first time she said, "God, you’re perfect."

Your fingers slip, the ball leaving your hands wrong. You know it immediately. The rotation’s off, the arc’s too flat. For the first time in 1,147 shots, The Prophecy misses.

The clang of the rim is deafening in the stillness.

You freeze. The ball rolls to a stop somewhere in the shadows.

Then something inside you cracks wide open.

The scream tears out of you before you can stop it—raw, guttural, primal. It echoes through the gym, bouncing back at you like the sound of your own heartbreak mocking you. 

The rack of balls goes flying as you shove it over, the sound of them scattering across the court like stars. You’re on your knees before you realize it, fists pounding against the hardwood, your throat raw, your vision blurring with something you promised yourself you wouldn’t feel.

"Rocket!"

The voice barely registers. Then hands are on your shoulders, pulling you back. You twist, trying to break free, but then you hear it again.

"I’ve got you," Sierra whispers. Her arms wrap around you, holding you steady as you shatter into pieces.

Jasmine is there too, her hands stroking your hair, her voice soft and soothing. “We’re here,” she murmurs. “We’ve got you.”

"She—" your voice cracks, breaking apart like glass. "They—"

"We know," Jasmine murmurs, pulling you closer. "We know, baby. It’s okay."

"I missed," you choke out, the words hollow and broken. "I never miss."

Sierra pulls back just enough to cup your face, forcing you to meet her eyes. "You’re allowed to miss," she says firmly. "You’re allowed to break. You’re allowed to be human."

"But The Prophecy—"

"Fuck The Prophecy," Jasmine says fiercely, her voice steady as a rock. "Right now, you’re just our girl, and you’re hurting, and that’s okay."

The words hit you like a lifeline, and finally, you let yourself collapse into them. You let the tears come, let them see the raw, vulnerable part of you that’s been hidden for so long. They hold you there on the court where you’ve been perfect, where you’ve made history, where you just missed for the first time because someone you loved broke your heart.

Later, they’ll help you to your feet. They’ll walk you home. They’ll make sure you eat, sleep, and breathe, even when it feels impossible.

Later, Paige will blow up your phone:

“please let me explain."

“it’s not what you think."

“i never meant to hurt you."

Later, you’ll pick yourself up and turn this pain into something sharper, something unbreakable.

But right now, in the dark gym, in the arms of your best friends, you let yourself break. You let yourself be human. You let yourself feel everything you’ve been trying to calculate away.

Because some things are perfect until they break.

And some things are stronger after breaking.

Proceed to the next part.

[hurthermore]

»»------► 𝚁𝚞𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚜 (18+)

Pairing: 𝙰𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚡 𝙵!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

Summary: 𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚕; 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎.

Word Count: 𝟹.𝟼𝚔

Warnings: 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚜, 𝙵!𝚁𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕, 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚍𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝, 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚝

A/N: 𝚆𝚘𝚠! 𝚂𝚘, 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝟷𝚔 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚊𝚕, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜- 𝚂𝙾 𝙸 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝚅𝙸𝙳𝙴!! 𝙱𝚒𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖; 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊 𝙷𝚄𝙶𝙴 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎!<𝟹

𝙹𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎!

Dealing with the effects of a rut was a notion Alastor was all too familiar with, and one he had surprisingly found rather effortless to maintain throughout his years in hell. A rut for the cursed Radio Demon was but a moment of time on the yearly calendar where the simplicity of agitation affected him more so than usual, and was, in no means, sexual, despite the biologicality of a ruts mere purpose. 

Yet the complication of a new addition to the Hazbin Hotel had recklessly disarranged not only how he had felt towards the emotion of love, but the usual easy going months of a rut. The simple inclusion of you had riled up his rut in a way he never could have expected as he found himself reduced to a panting mess, craving your touch as his cock begged to be kissed by any part of your skin.

Not only was the desire of sexual intercourse new territory for Alastor, but it was a desire he had promised himself to not overtake his well controlled sense of self presentation. He couldn’t; he had an image to uphold and allowing any absurd yearning to dictate his actions was not only unbecoming of him, but detrimental to him.

So he did the best thing his mind could conjure; to avoid you and any thoughts of you until his rut finally reached the end of its exploits. Which was not only painstakingly difficult, but had annoyingly set a rather unsettling feeling inside of him as you had embedded yourself in a place within his usually vacant heart; his want to be with you, to engage in meaningless chatter with you, to simply bask in your presence, regardless of his rut, was consuming him more and more as he continued to avoid you.

It was difficult in both regards; his body, heart, gut, and cock all begged to be near you, but his mind demanded he keep his distance, to avoid your presence from worsening the need to fuck himself into you; and oh was that a task in itself, but one he had managed to pull off. He had noticed, of course, being the observant man he was, that it had deeply hurt and affected you as he avoided you for almost a month straight. The face that you would pull whenever he would allow his shadows to warp him away from a room you had entered, or whenever you attempted to call out to him, had his chest constricting in a way he wasn’t used to; a way that hurt his innards.

He had, to alleviate the pain of having to deny you his presence and the pain his rut had brought him, found himself busying his time with ridiculous chores around the hotel; ones he would usually leave for his owned souls to be allocated in. It had helped, for a time, until the remnants of your voice that reverberated through the hotel always ended up tickling his ears in such a lovely tone, forcing him to hide within the confines of his own materialised space every single night; only to pierce his long taloned claws into the barks of trees as he refused to even touch his own cock to relieve the pulsing of his sex that begged to be snugged within the warm and wet walls of your cunt.

Yet he found tonight was different to his usual need to hide from you. Your voice had yet again alerted him of your presence being in the lobby of the hotel, precisely in the bar area, and he had heard his own cursed name fall from the lusciousness of your lips in vexation. The familiarity of your silked voice had his cock throbbing in lust instantly, forcing his yellowed teeth to penetrate into the skin of his lower lip in an attempt to alleviate the sensations that his rut had inflicted upon him. But, for some reason, this time, his body had won over his mind as his hooves began to lead him closer to your voice. The pent up afflictions of everything he had allowed to build up over the course of the month had affected him dearly, and even though he usually refused to give in, this time, he couldn’t help but allow his primal urges to make the decision for him.

Drawing closer to your voice like a man entranced by a siren’s song, his breath began to heave as drool cascaded down his sharpened chin, hoping that no one would witness him in such a state; no one but you. But as he rounded the corner to the lobby of the hotel, his ears twitched in irritation as the familiar voice of Angel Dust shook through his system. 

So you weren’t alone.

Rolling his own eyes, jealousy began to course through him. He knew if he hadn’t been avoiding you, you would be stuck to his side, not some adult picture show actor. As envy began to overtake him, the logical side of his mind was able to convince him to hide away in his room again, just like every other night, only to wreak havoc on his own living space to combat the sensations; but before he could turn away, you had spoken something that had made his heart pump in pain.

“I think Alastor hates me.” 

He didn’t know why such a small sentence had affected him so; if anyone else had said such a thing he’d simply laugh before ignoring it, but the fact you believed he hated you had pained him in a way that had his body screaming to comfort you, to set your mind at ease despite how the other half of his mind wanted to reject his urges. Tightening his smile ever so slightly in pain, he allowed his body to once again dictate his course of actions; actions that had him warping himself into the shadows that lurked around the dimmed room before hiding inside your own shadow as you continued your conversation.

“He’s been avoiding me like the fucking plague, Angel, I don’t know what I’ve done or said to him that could’ve caused this, and everytime I try to talk to him he just disappears.” The torment in your voice had broken him, and although he knew his avoidance had hurt you throughout the past month, he had not taken into account that it would have manipulated you into believing he hated you. He had only wished to avoid facing his problems of the unfamiliarity of sexual arousal, an arousal that longed for you, as well as refusing to allow himself to lose control of his well put together persona, refusing to allow the possibility of his body pouncing on you before rutting himself deep inside you, despite how much he wished to do as much.

“Maybe he found out ya’ like him an’ wanna fuck his deer daddy dick and got all grossed out ‘bout it.” Angel had commented before laughing; smacking your back in jest, not realising how harshly those words most likely affected you. 

Fuck.

Alastor wasn’t expecting the sensations of his rut to flare up so dramatically as the implication of you not only reciprocating his feelings, but the additional implication that you also wanted to fornicate with him was made known to him. His shadowed self began to tremble ever so slightly against the floorboards as the thought of you screaming out in pleasure below him swarmed his mind, dousing it in provocative images of you bared and ready for him.

“That’s what I’ve been thinking too. I can’t imagine anything else that would make him avoid me to this extent.” You had confirmed Alastor’s speculation as you responded to the porn actor, making the blood rush almost instantly to his already throbbing and needy cock. His body was reacting more erratically at this newfound information, and the desire to simply bend you over the bar right at that moment before fucking you in front of everyone around was becoming an urge that was rather difficult to fight off. 

Tensing everything within, his overflowing thoughts of simply pumping into you drowned out the conversation between yourself and Angel. His ever consuming imagination of burying himself deep inside you before pumping his knot into your core was all that he could conjure in his mind. The only thought that doused him was seeing your pretty little abused cunt filled with his cock and cum. He hadn’t known how long he had stayed there, attached to your shadow as he allowed primal thoughts of mating with you surround him, but clearly long enough as you began shimmying yourself off the stool next to the bar before clicking your heels against the floor.

Focusing his attention back onto you, he prevented the deep growl that threatened to leave his larynx as his oculi fixated on your form; the same form that wore a ridiculously short dress with stockings and garter belts that squished so tightly into your skin so tight that he could see the fat of your flesh pop out from its indents ever so slightly. 

Who did you think you were, allowing anyone to witness the soft plush of your skin?

You were Alastor's; only he should have the privilege of seeing such things.

Not registering the overly possessive thought that usually would have alerted him, Alastor continued to watch your movements from behind as he trailed his shadow along with yours. He hadn’t noticed his surroundings as you entered the library, his gaze solely focused on the slight sway of your hips and how the fat of your thighs undulated with every step you took, not until you stood still at an aisle within the room, looking for a type of book.

It was at that moment he recalled why he had avoided you for the past month; the desire to completely make you his was becoming too much, so much so that he had found his hand reaching out from the shadow below you, attempting to reach for the thick of your thighs, just for a tiny touch. But reason overtook him, causing his movements to halt, his fingers straining in a twitch as he denied himself the sweet touch of your unknowing skin; he couldn’t do this, regardless of how you had reciprocated his emotions, the estrangement of desire and love was unbecoming for him, a weakness he didn't want to exist.

But then you had to bend over as you reached for a book, your short dress riding up your hips as you did, gracing Alastor’s eyes with the flimsy piece of lingerie that covered your puffy cunt. His breath had hitched and his rut began screaming, demanding, forcing him to reach out to you, to finally consummate with you, but your own posterior achieved that for him as you bent your knees, unintentionally brushing your clothed core against his reaching fingers.

Before you could scream from the sudden touch, Alastor had quickly conjured a black appendage from the bookshelf, plunging it into your opening mouth, forcing the scream that threatened to abrupt from your throat to be silenced within your oesophagus. Materialising himself from the shadows he had once hidden himself within, he stood tall behind you, wrapping his taloned fingers against your throat before pushing your front against the bookshelf harshly, knocking some novels onto the floor in the process before he pushed his own front against your back as he humped his hard throbbing cock against the small of your back.

The terror in your eyes had made his cock twitch within his suit pants, but he needed you to know it was him, not some stranger doing this to you; so he tilted your neck back, forcing you to look up and into his eyes as he stood tall behind you. As your eyes connected, the terror in your eyes seemed to disappear instantaneously, replaced with shock and a glimmer of hope; lust.

“Such a filthy little darling aren’t you?” He had whispered in your ears as his cock still rubbed against your lower back. “Making me feel these things; this is what you wanted, wasn’t it?” His tone came out more frustrated than he had intended; but he was indeed frustrated, frustrated that you had made him lose control of himself.

The appendage in your mouth slowly left the confines of your throat as Alastor wished to hear your beautiful voice that called for him everyday, only to smear its tip across your lips as you coughed ever so softly. “Al-“ You began to speak as he rubbed his pelvis against you with more vigour. “Why are you-“ Your sentence contorted into a choked moan as his fingers around your throat were replaced for the same appendage that had just explored your mouth. 

“Why am I doing this?” He completed your sentence for you as his talons caressed the sides of your waist, rubbing his thumbs into your clothed skin before hitching them skyward until his palms grasped your breasts. “Such a stupid little thing you are; a stupid, pretty little thing.” He groaned into your ear before allowing his urges to completely overtake him, his lips pressing sloppily against your cheek before his hands pulled the top of your dress down, allowing your bare breasts to become exposed to him. 

Growling ever so loudly, his fingertips squeezed and massaged your breasts as though they were his own personal stress reliever, pinching your erect nipples before pulling on your mounds without remorse, forcing your scalp to lean back against his shoulder as you moaned out in a mixture of pleasure and pain. “That’s it.” Alastor groaned against your cheek as he continued his assault. “Keep moaning for your master like the good little whore you are.”

The appendage around your throat tightened ever so slightly as you had begun reciprocating his harsh humping against you, forcing your posterior to grind against his clothed cock. 

Groaning at your positive response to his assault, Alastor's claws left your breasts to rip the dress off your body, the shredded remains falling to the floor. “Alastor-“ You had whined so seductively, making his need to rut into you more intense; something he didn’t think was possible.

“Keep saying it, my slutty darling; don’t stop.” He had begged you with demand before he dropped to his knees. “Don’t you dare stop saying my name.” A demand he threatened you with before his palms cupped the fat of your ass, squeezing it and puncturing his talons within it as you completed his request to keep crying out his name.

He knew, realistically, that he would not last long once he entered his overly needy cock inside of your lovely warm walls; especially with the fact of him being a complete virgin, and the pent up rage of his rut. Being the gentleman he was, despite how unruly his current actions were, he would never expect you to get him off without giving you the same satisfaction of a release. So he prolonged his tongue from his mouth before dragging it up the length of your stocking covered legs, covering the skin that peaked between your stockings and garter belt with his red salvia.

All the while he nipped and licked your thighs, you continued to moan his name, your hands gripping against the shelf before you as you prevented yourself from falling over from the sheer lust that was flowing through you. “Please, Alastor, please touch me.” You had begged so nicely, begged him to touch your cunt. He craved to tease you, to make you tell him exactly where you wished to be touched until you cried for him; but his need to fuck his cock into was too intense for any prolonging, so he gave into your request without question as he sunk his tongue between the cheeks of your ass before plunging it inside of your cunt.

With his face pressed against your soft and luscious ass as his tongue dove within your walls, the familiar taste of flesh doused his taste buds, but there was also another taste he had never experienced before; one that was unexplainable, but oh so lovely. 

His new favourite treat, he had decided.

Your cries of pleasure made his ears twitch erratically in all directions, making his knot swell within his already hardened cock. His hands never left the plush of your posterior whilst he fucked his tongue inside of your core, massaging the fat as your gummy and warm walls massaged his oral muscle that slicked deep inside of you.

He wanted you to hurry up; to come undone on his tongue, to scream his name from your mouth and collapse on the floor quickly so he could finally relieve some of the pain that his rut had brought upon him. Conjuring another appendage, he guided it to lace around your untouched and throbbing clit. The noises that escaped your mouth as it did only motivated Alastor to press harder, to plunge his face against you further to force his tongue deeper, harder, and faster inside of you.

The moans, the cries, and the whining that left your beautiful lips almost had him releasing in his own pants, especially as your stocking covered thighs began trembling; the muscles in your legs threatening to cease working as your orgasm began approaching. Alastor couldn’t help but let his own groan of pleasure out of his throat as you began pushing your ass against his face, gyrating your hips to ride his tongue as you cried out.

He was surprised no one had heard you yet; but that was the least of his worries.

Groaning yet again, Alastor's eyes rolled back in pleasure as the over fluxation of your orgasm began to soak his tongue and seep onto his lips, your voice screaming his name as you pushed your cunt against his face as you came. Eating up your juices, he pulled away from your core ever so slowly, a string of lubricant connecting between your cunt and his tongue refusing to tear until he conjured multiple appendages from different surfaces to grasp around different parts of your body; squeezing you ever so slightly before forcing your face to be pressed against the floor as your ass was pulled up.

“Such a pretty little cunt for such a dirty little slut.” Alastor groaned as he looked at your exposed puffy sex. His hands making quick work of releasing his cock from the confines of his clothes as he desperately craved to fill you up with his cum. “My dirty little slut, aren’t you?” 

You had nodded eagerly despite his appendages holding your skull down. “Yes, Alastor; I’m yours.” You moaned, telling him with your words and showing him with your body language how much you reciprocated his longing for you. Stroking a hand down your spine, Alastor pressed the tip of his cock against your welcoming walls.

“Good girl.” He groaned before pushing his cock inside you with a roughness you clearly weren’t expecting from the fucked out look on your face. He hadn’t expected the feeling of fornication to be so intense; so pleasurable. His cock was already on the verge of combusting as he soaked in the beauty of your cunt, the tightness and warmth it offered his length.

Alastor, right then and there, had decided he wanted this for the rest of his life; to have you, not only around his cock, but by his side.

Your voice screamed in shock as he forced his cock to hit against your cervix, making Alastor crave to push his throbbing knot to enter you; to finally fill you up. Rutting himself inside of you, he retracted his black appendages from your body before threading one hand through your hair whilst the other wrapped around your neck, pulling you backwards to flush your head against his chest.

Looking down at you as he roughly fucked his cock within you, he smiled with tension. “You’re mine now; you belong to me; I don’t care if I don’t own your soul. I will kill anyone who tries to keep you from me, do you understand?” You had screamed a flurry of yeses as Alastor pummelled his cock in and out of you after he had demanded for your submission to him; drool escaping your lips as his grip on your neck became tighter. 

“Look at me.” He had demanded, his voice scratchy and glitched as he pulled your hair back further so you could make eye contact with him; and once you had managed to focus on fixating your gaze on his red glowing eyes instead of how deliciously his cock slid in and out of you with such roughness, forcing your body to jolt forward with every thrust, Alastor groaned as he gazed back into your eyes. “Look at me whilst I breed you.”

You did; you looked at him so intensely, even when the pain of him forcing his swelled knot to push into you, pushing the tip of his cock to intrude within the opening of your cervix as he pushed the rest of his length in, you still maintained a passionate eye contact with him. You had screamed through it despite your ability to maintain a gaze with him, and those screams were music to his ears, forcing groaned sighs to echo from his lips as his knot finally locked inside you, his thighs twitched and his balls squeezed as his cock spilled his thick and heavy seed inside you.

Alastor hadn’t known how long he had stayed within your walls as his cock continuously came inside your cunt, but it had been long; all that pent up aggression and sexual tension released in one session, forcing a months worth of cum to be released into your welcoming womb.

Leaning down towards you; his cock still stuck inside your cunt, he placed a kiss against your cheek; a sign of endearment to mark you as his officially.

“Mine.”

»»------►𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝